


Hands, like secrets, are the hardest thing to keep from you

by graves_expectations



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Handcuffed Together, M/M, but not physically, with MAGIC~
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-03 05:03:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10960251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graves_expectations/pseuds/graves_expectations
Summary: This is the closest anyone has come to him in ages, Percival thinks, and it’s not even by choice. No, it’s all because of a spell. Isn’tthata disheartening realisation?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gothyringwald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/gifts).



> [gothyringwald](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) said on tumblr: are there any magically bound/accidentally handcuffed kind of graves/credence fics out there (ficlets, drabbles, anything)? it’s one of my all-time favourite tropes (because it tends to incorporate my other favourite tropes like sharing a bed) and i rarely see it in fic these days. but i felt like it could be really fun with them - credence learning spells and potions and one goes a bit wrong and he and graves end up either like stuck together or can’t move too far apart or something. (or no-maj where they are literally handcuffed together by accident). awkwardness and eventual sexiness ensues???
> 
> AND SO I TRIED MY BEST :D I really hope you like it! It's almost done, but I thought I'd start posting because it's taking me SO LONG. So long.

Percival is fuming in his study when it happens.

Credence’s tutor—an elderly, diminutive, outwardly unremarkable witch named Bronwen—had insulted him yet again when she arrived at the house for Credence’s charms lesson that morning. And now, while Percival is _meant_ to be passing an enjoyable Saturday at his leisure, what he’s _actually_ doing is smarting over Bronwen’s comment that he had ‘a face like a smacked arse’ today and trying to come up with a witty retort for later when he can happily shut his front door on her. One thing about this Saturday morning that really is enjoyable though is listening out for Credence’s laughter from where he’s practicing summoning with Bronwen in the next room.

He only hired a private tutor to carry out the bulk of Credence’s magical education in the first place because he was afraid he’d somehow stunt the boy’s growth by not being calm enough (or kind enough) to teach him properly. As the world’s oldest documented living Obscurial, the world’s _only_ documented former Obscurial, Credence still had unfathomable reserves of untapped magical power, and Percival was keen to see him reach his potential.

While Percival had found training Aurors satisfying when he used to have time to participate in that, he wasn’t a man known for his endless, saint-like patience, to say the least. Nor was he good at offering comfort to the downtrodden, finding himself giving many a despairing pupil a brusque pat on the back and stumbling over words that were probably more threatening than encouraging.

In part though, his problem had been that his seniority meant he only ever taught at a late stage when the trainees were about ready to stand on their own two feet. He was almost an examiner instead of a teacher at that point and their mistakes used to frustrate him to no end because they were supposed to _know better by now._

Credence turned out to be another story altogether, of course, and when he talked Percival into helping him with ‘a few spells’ between his official lessons with Bronwen, Percival even started to wonder if he’d missed his calling in life.

There’s a straightforward but intoxicating joy in seeing Credence grasp a wand that doesn’t yet sit comfortably in his hand as he exerts his will over the world around him. More heady still is the brilliant grin he’ll level at Percival right after casting a spell, seeking his approval every time. Percival gives it willingly, wholeheartedly, because Credence is the fastest learner he’s ever seen with the tenacity and dedication to match his innate ability.

In many ways, he’s the perfect student. He doesn’t shy away from hard work like some of the young Aurors that Percival used to berate for their laziness and complacency. His mistakes don’t bring any frustration whatsoever—they’re just learning opportunities because this is all new territory for Credence, and he never wallows in self-pity over any failings, only picks himself back up ready to try again, to be better.

With a pupil of that calibre, it was easy for Percival to be the type of teacher he always wanted to be: a guiding hand, a sculptor of raw talent.

There’s a jealous streak a mile wide in him though that almost regrets the fact that he’s not Credence’s _only_ teacher. He’d love to hoard all those firsts for himself—the look on Credence’s face when he first levitated a feather, when he first turned a match into a needle—and instead they belong to someone else.

He _almost_ regrets it. He can’t drop the almost because he’s ridiculously grateful that he _did_ hire someone external. The little ‘homework’ sessions he has with Credence that give him so much pride and satisfaction are woeful evidence that he would not have been able to keep any semblance of professionalism about the whole affair.

He stands too close and his hands linger too long when he moves Credence’s wand arm in the correct motions. (These are the only times he has a good excuse to touch Credence and he takes shameless advantage of them.)

He smiles too wide and his _eyes_ linger too long, definitely, because they do at any time when he’s with Credence. That’s nothing new.

Worst of all, perhaps, is that he praises Credence with all the blatant effusiveness of a man in love. And he is that, he knows. He can’t _sleep_ properly at night for knowing it and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

Just living with Credence—seeing him first thing every morning and last thing before bed— is a form of torture. He’s within Percival’s reach all the time and he might as well be as distant as the stars.

That distance may ache, it may be a scab that Percival picks at constantly so it never heals, but it’s a hurt he’ll bear in silence until he dies if it means he still has the privilege of getting to see Credence blossom not only into a young wizard, but a young _ma_ _n_.

Since coming to live with Percival, Credence has reshaped his identity entirely, free at last to do so without the influence of his adoptive mother. He rises later in the mornings and takes longer in the bath now he realises Percival will never chastise him for sloth. He eats far more than the bare minimum that he used to think wouldn’t be classed as gluttony and he even asks for second helpings sometimes with clear eyes and steady hands.

Even Credence’s appearance reflects the positive changes: his face has filled out and he’s lost that gaunt, hungry expression he used to resignedly wear like another drab item of clothing. His wrists remain slender but no longer give the impression they might snap in even the gentlest hands.

He’s come such a long way and Percival won’t allow any setbacks, won’t do anything that could make Credence lose his trust in him. With so much at stake, Percival’s own feelings don’t come into it.

So, really, it’s just as well that he only has a limited time to enjoy teaching Credence magic too much for his own good and someone impartial is responsible for actually moulding Credence into the wizard he was always meant to be. The only issue is that when Percival decided to hire ‘the best money can buy’, he wasn’t expecting that to come in the form of Bronwen, who would go on to treat Credence as if he was her own son and Percival himself as if he were a naughty puppy.

“Mister Graves,” she had said in her lilting Welsh accent during Credence’s very first lesson, “if you are going to brood in a corner the entire session with a face like thunder then perhaps your time might be better served elsewhere? I don’t want Credence distracted or I might end up with my eyebrows singed off. _Again._ And I certainly wouldn’t want a pair as magnificent as yours to suffer a similar fate either.”

Speechless in the face of such audacity, Percival had almost sacked the woman on the spot. But when he looked to Credence to check he really had just heard that right, Credence had a hand over his mouth in what was initially a gesture of shock before it turned into an attempt to stifle laughter. The attempt was quite ineffective and Credence ended up doubled over, gasping between delighted giggles. He’d never seen anybody treat Percival with anything less than total respect and clearly it amused him beyond measure.

Percival had softened at once, the deep breath he’d taken in to begin a tirade against the witch released like air from a deflating balloon. Anything and any _one_ who could make Credence laugh like that got a free pass.

Still, he wouldn’t be talked back to in his own home and he had given the tutor his sharpest, most quelling look. Where it might have induced abject terror in any Auror under his command, Bronwen had only smiled back beatifically, her silver mane of wispy hair a halo around her head. From that hair to her mismatched, shabby robes (British witches and wizards—why couldn’t they dress more conservatively?) to her lack of self-preservation, the woman was obviously mad. Utterly mad.

He’d left them to it with a sigh and ever since it’s been _Bronwen says this_ and _Bronwen thinks that_ from Credence. And, true to all the good things Percival had heard about this tutor, Credence has progressed at an incredible rate. He’s probably years ahead of where he would be at Ilvermorny in just a few short months.

The blasted witch still insists on scoring points against Percival whenever she sees him and he does his best to return the favour, but she’s definitely the best thing that could have happened to Credence. Most importantly: she’s Credence’s _friend_. He’s in short supply of those and, however much Percival may grit his teeth at her needling, Credence absolutely adores her and she dotes on him just as much. She always arrives with cakes or pastries and leaves only after she’s sat down with Credence to eat them at the end of a lesson while she waves her hands and tells him everything she knows about King Arthur and Merlin (or, as she insisted upon: Myrddin).

She’s still strict with him in lessons, but if Percival is around for it, he always hears the evidence that they’re having fun. Like now—through the wall that separates his study and the sitting room, he hears Bronwen exclaim something, the sound followed by her shrill cackling and Credence’s awkward, burbling laugh.

Percival is just getting out of the chair ready to go and see how they’re getting on when he feels a blinding surge of pain in his head.

It’s _horrendous_. Percival ends up falling to his knees, hands coming up to clutch his temples instinctively, mouth opening around an irrepressible shout. His first thought—when he _can_ think again—is that he’s under attack. He’s had the Cruciatus Curse cast on him a few times and the pain is luckily nowhere as bad as that, nor as widespread throughout his body, but it’s not a million miles away.

He feels like his forehead is splitting apart, like someone has put a knife in the centre of it and is slowly pushing on the hilt. His vision has gone blurry around the edges and his ears are ringing, but he still hears the anguished cry that comes from the next room.

 _Credence_.

Someone is hurting Credence. Percival’s own pain becomes a secondary concern at that and he stumbles out of his study, hands stretched out in front of him to feel for the door-frame and then to use the walls in the hallway for support. He can barely see and he’s closer to crouching than standing in this state.

As he goes, the throb of his temples recedes gradually until it becomes almost bearable and he’s able to straighten his spine again.

When he bursts into the living room, he’s met by the sight of Credence cringing on the floor and holding his head like Percival had been a moment ago. Bronwen has her arms around him and is talking into his ear, clearly trying to comfort him. There’s no one else present, no obvious assailant, but that doesn’t relax Percival in the slightest.

He staggers over to the pair and when he gets within a foot of them, the pain eases further and then is abruptly, blessedly _gone._ He collapses to the floor at Credence’s feet in relief, able to see and think clearly again.

He does a quick assessment of Credence and is even more relieved to note that he doesn’t seem to be physically harmed in any way.

Credence lets out a whimper. “It’s stopped,” he moans. “Thank God, it’s stopped.”

Bronwen strokes a wrinkled hand through his hair and Percival’s own hand itches to provide that same comfort. He’s close enough to do it but he stays his hand, like always.

“Are you all right?” Percival asks him.

Credence nods, but his eyes are glistening. “What’s happening? My head… I’ve never felt pain like that.”

“I have no idea,” Percival says, scrubbing his palm down the length of his face. “I had it too; it just stopped as quickly as it started when I came in here.”

“That’s when it stopped for me as well.”

Percival looks to Bronwen in question and she shakes her head. “I feel fine,” she says, “it didn’t affect me, just the two of you.”

“What were you doing when it started?” Percival asks.

Now that his awareness has expanded from the tunnel vision of _must get to Credence_ , he notices the cushions scattered around the room, the evidence of Credence’s attempts at summoning.

“I was just practicing with Bronwen. I know I kept getting it wrong, but…” Credence glances down at his wand, lying on the floor within arm’s reach where he must have dropped it. His gaze is wary and he doesn’t move to pick it up again. “I didn’t do this,” he says. “Did I?”

“No,” Percival assures at once, seeing Credence’s shoulders rise and his eyes turn fearful. “No, Credence, there’s nothing you could have done.”

He says that… but the magical ability of a former Obscurus is still very much uncharted territory. Credence hasn’t caused any unexpected major incidents as yet, but there was always (and still _is_ ) a chance that the manifestation of his magic could be volatile and unpredictable.

“At least it’s stopped,” Percival says reasonably. “Let me get you a drink of water. You’ll feel better.”

Credence smiles and mumbles a “thank you”. He looks awfully pale. More than he normally does, anyway.

Percival gets to his feet and feels a pinch in the centre of his forehead. Thinking it’s just a remnant of the pain from before, he turns to go to the kitchen. He only makes it two steps before the pinch becomes a _punch_ and he hears Credence cry out.

What kind of curse _is_ this?

“Finite incantatem,” Percival says through clenched teeth.

Nothing happens. The pain when he takes another step makes him feel sick.

“Percival,” Bronwen barks from the floor where she’s having to soothe Credence again, “stop being a martyr and just sit down before you fall down. Come _here_ and sit with us until this—whatever it is—passes.”

For once, Percival does as he’s told. He’s not sure his legs will carry him any further and, feeling both vulnerable _and_ protective at the same time, he badly wants to be near Credence with this all going on.

Curiously, the headache vanishes once more when he goes back over to Credence and Credence’s drawn features relax like the same has happened for him too.

“Why is it gone again?” Percival murmurs. “How…?”

He stands up and an identical stirring of pain makes itself known. He stays still, waiting for it to get worse the longer he’s upright, but it doesn’t. So it’s not that. When he walks a few paces away from Credence and Bronwen though, his brain might as well be on _fire_.

“Make it stop, make it stop,” Credence moans, hands coming up to his head.

Percival quickly walks back towards him and… yes, just as he thought. Instant relief. For himself and Credence both.

“Myrddin’s beard,” Bronwen says in a hushed tone. She’d been watching his little experiment and has obviously come to the same conclusion. “What a pickle you’re in.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I am so, _so_ sorry,” Credence says.

Percival gives him a smile that he hopes is as gentle and comforting as he means it to be. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he says. “I’m certain you’re not responsible. This is unusual magic, _advanced_ magic. As good as you are, I just don’t think you’d be capable of this at your stage of training. So don’t worry about it.”

They’re sat close together on Percival’s sofa—unbearably closer than normal thanks to this damnable curse—and watching the rain patter against the sitting room window, each of them absorbed in his own thoughts until Credence had broken the silence between them.

Bronwen had gone home to consult her plethora of old books after Percival sent his owl to Seraphina telling her to send a team of MACUSA’s finest curse-breakers their way.

“Entrust my pupil’s well-being to _Americans_?” she had said, seemingly not counting the two of them (or perhaps just not Credence) among that hated group. “No, thank you, I won’t be doing that. I’ll do my own research and I’ll be back when I have a solution.”

Unfortunately, her current knowledge and Percival’s combined had not been sufficient to stop him and Credence suffering every time they move more than a few inches apart, but their attempts did lead to the discovery that the pain of separation was never as bad as those first few times had been. It remained bad enough though that they still decided against testing the boundary unnecessarily after that.

Percival has never had any experience with a curse like it and, as Director of Magical Security, he’s got experience with _a lot_. It doesn’t bode well for the curse-breakers, but he’s humble enough to admit they have greater expertise in this area.

Whatever credit he would have given them is dwindling now it’s been thirty minutes since he despatched his owl. Percival is somewhat unimpressed with whomever is going to arrive because, as far as he's concerned, they're already late, even if it is a Saturday. This five-day working week concept is relatively new in both Wizarding and No-Maj America alike and, while Percival enjoys having an extra day at home with Credence, he's still struggling to get used to it.

“Then I’m sorry you’re stuck with me,” Credence says next, pulling Percival out of his internal grumbling. “I know you must hate it.”

Percival turns his head to gape at him. Hate it? He can’t leave Credence’s side and Credence can’t leave his. It’s the stuff his dreams are made of, even if it _is_ also a nightmare having to restrain himself from just pulling Credence even closer than this minute distance.

“Why would you say that?” he asks, genuinely baffled. “You know I love your company. There’s no one else I can think of who I’d rather be attached to like this.”

He truly _would_ hate to be attached to anyone else and he almost shudders at the thought. Maybe it would be easier to be unable to move away from someone he wasn’t besotted with, but the bond wouldn’t be anywhere near as welcome or as thrilling.

“But you never…” Credence trails off, frowning.

Percival matches the expression. “I never what?”

Adding to his confusion, Credence just shakes his head. “Nothing, ignore me. I don’t know why I said anything.”

Percival doesn’t like the sound of that, but he leaves it be. He hates to push Credence on anything, always preferring to let him come to his confessions and conclusions in his own time.

“Well,” he says, “you’re wrong, in any case. I don’t hate it. I just hate anything that causes you pain.”

That gets a weak smile from Credence and Percival’s heart feels lighter to see it. It’s not a full banishment of whatever doubts are plaguing him, but Percival will take it.

A brisk knock interrupts their conversation before he can offer any more assurances.

“Who is it?” Percival shouts, adding an amplifying charm to his voice to make sure it reaches the front door. He’s not letting just _anyone_ through it when he and Credence are in this mess. They’re more susceptible to attack than he would like by far and he still doesn’t know who or what is to blame for this.

“Curse-breaking team, sir. Heard from the President that you’re in a spot of trouble.” The voice that booms back is familiar and Percival stands up unthinkingly to go let them in.

“Ow,” he and Credence groan in unison.

“Sorry,” Percival says, wincing.

Credence doesn’t look annoyed as he stands up to join him, just offers a brief quirk of his lips. “I’ll probably forget and do the same at some point.”

The headache dissipates the second he’s within inches of Percival again. Their shoulders brush and Credence is near enough that Percival catches the enticing scent of the shampoo that clings to his hair. This is the closest anyone has come to him in ages, Percival thinks, and it’s not even by choice. No, it’s all because of a spell. Isn’t _that_ a disheartening realisation?

He sets that melancholy aside for now—another one for his mind to come back to when he can't sleep, probably.

He and Credence travel awkwardly across the room together, trying not to bump into or trip over each other while they also try not to separate enough to bring on any pain.

“I’m sure they’ll be able to fix this,” Percival says, with much more confidence than he feels.

 

* * *

 

The curse-breakers are not, in fact, able to fix anything.

Despite expecting that very outcome, Percival _might_ have been a bit harsh with the three specialised Aurors when all their efforts made no difference to their situation. Being asked to repeatedly experience searing pain in the centre of one’s head as a test would be enough to make anybody ill-tempered though, he thinks.

He dismisses them all with instructions to not come back until they know what this is and how to combat it when Credence begins to look too strained by the ordeal after yet another failure.

“Go on, hit the books,” he growls, kneading at his forehead. He waves the same hand agitatedly when the Aurors don’t move to indicate that they should have _left already._

That gets a chorus of “yes, sir” and then the Aurors are scurrying out the door.

“What do we do now?” Credence asks when they’re alone again. His hands cross over his chest to rub his upper arms in a self-comforting gesture.

It’s a good question. There’s little else either of them can do about the hand fate has dealt them, and so Percival is at a bit of a loss.

“We try to make the most of the day,” he says at length. “We can still do things, we just have to be more careful about it.”

The rain hasn’t stopped all morning, so they wouldn’t have been going out after Credence’s lesson in all likelihood anyway. They can just take it easy here at home this afternoon and hopefully someone will find a solution in the meantime. Percival hates how powerless he feels even thinking that, but this is the perfect opportunity to just spend _time_ with Credence and make the most of their unusual proximity, which takes a lot of the sting away.

Credence’s stomach gives a rumble then and Percival realises that, in amongst all the upheaval, they’ve missed lunch.

He smiles as Credence’s ears turn an adorable shade of pink. “Let’s get something to eat first,” he says with a laugh.

 

* * *

 

An as yet unmanifested facet of the curse rears its head when they’re making sandwiches together.

Side by side in the kitchen, Credence reaches over Percival for a knife and their hands brush by sheer accident. It must be the first time their skin has touched since this all began—the reaction is instantaneous and undeniable.

Credence gasps. Percival sways and has to grip onto the counter when sudden pleasure floods over him as if it had just been dropped from a bucket above his head. If he was asked to describe the sensation properly, he would struggle to capture it in words. It’s definitely not a sexual kind of pleasure. It’s not an urgent feeling, not something to chase so that it builds and peaks. It’s something much more akin to contentment, like the sense of absolute _rightness_ he felt on the day when Credence arrived with his meagre belongings ready to move in with him, like the joy he feels seeing the peaceful look on Credence’s face when he trustingly falls asleep on the sofa in the same room as him sometimes after a long day.

The feeling soaks through Percival’s body, warming him to the core. He smiles, unable to stop his lips curving upwards because he’s just… happy.

It all stops when Credence pulls his hand away as if he’d been burned and clutches it to his chest. “What was that?” he asks. “It felt so—” Credence breaks off. He can’t describe it easily either, it seems. “What _was_ that?”

“I don’t know. May I?”

Percival extends his hand and Credence tentatively takes it. They both shiver through another burst of delight, although it’s somewhat less dramatic than the first time now they’re expecting it. Percival’s hand tingles pleasantly across the whole area where Credence’s skin meets his.

“Incredible,” he breathes.

Credence’s eyes are glassy, his mouth parted with soft puffs of air coming out. At this distance, Percival can feel the heat of every one against his cheek. It makes him delirious with want.

He remembers himself before he can lean forward and do something stupid, hurriedly extricating his hand from Credence’s. The loss of sensation makes his stomach clench as if in protest.

“We should—” he says, stopping when he realises he’s almost panting for breath like Credence now in the aftermath. “We should keep touching to a minimum if it does _this_.”

He’s expecting Credence to agree straight away, but instead he blinks a few times, his mouth pulls down, and he tucks his chin into his neck. He steps back from Percival and they both hiss in pain, but Credence doesn’t move in close again to stop it.

“What’s the matter?” Percival asks. The sinking feeling he has now is far worse than the stabbing in his head. This, _this_ is why he doesn’t touch Credence normally, afraid he could shatter the fragile thing between them somehow.

“You didn’t like it?” Credence asks in a small, tremulous voice. “It felt like—to me, it felt—”

Credence steps up to him, drawn in almost automatically, judging by the glazed look that lingers in his eyes. The abrupt absence of pain combined with Credence’s very nearness make Percival light-headed, his skin too hot and too tight.

“Oh Credence, no. It felt wonderful,” Percival says, wanting to reassure him. “I just meant that it’s very... distracting.”

“Oh.”

Credence’s eyes clear and then dart away, like he’s embarrassed. Percival returns his focus to the task at hand and they finish making lunch in an uncomfortable silence after that.

When they carefully move to the sitting room to eat, Percival begins to worry about logistics going forward. If the curse takes a long time to break—and he suspects it will—then how are they going to live until then? How are they going to sleep? How will they bathe? What about when one of them needs to use the restroom?

Percival grimaces and resolves to suffer through the pain of separation for that last one.

When it happens, as it was always going to, even that short time apart and the small distance of being on the other side of one door are intolerable. Credence comes out of the bathroom sweating and shaking and Percival takes the risk of touching his hand to relieve their discomfort and replace it with something good. He’s careful to let go again as soon as Credence is recovered.

“I might just not drink for the rest of the day,” Credence jokes and Percival has to smile, even as worries about _later_ continue to gnaw at the edge of his consciousness.

 

* * *

 

To keep themselves occupied, they end up falling into practicing spells. Credence’s session with Bronwen was cut short after all and Percival is _more_ than happy to take over. They pass a good couple of hours that way: Credence mastering the summoning charm he’d been practicing that morning, Percival making him laugh when he instigates a bizarre game of catch that the spell allows them to play even with their sides pressed together.

Despite the stress the curse has caused, Percival finds himself in a good mood throughout the afternoon. Credence is oddly relaxed too and his smile is infectious. Just seeing him like this—loose-limbed, grinning as they lark about like children—and thinking about the better effect of the curse gives Percival an idea.

“What do you think about trying to cast a Patronus?” he asks.

The ball they’d been playing with drops to the floor with a soft thump when Credence's concentration breaks. He turns to face Percival and frowns. “Do you think I’m ready for that? I thought they were really difficult.”

They are, but Percival just had the thought that even if he’s not _ready,_ Credence might be _happy_ enough at last.

“You just need a good enough memory,” he says.

Credence’s smile fixed in his mind, Percival effortlessly conjures his lynx Patronus and watches with a glad heart as the bright creature gambols around Credence, eliciting peals of laughter from him. Yet another image he could call upon in future to cast it.

“Try it,” he encourages. “It’s not like anything can go wrong if it doesn’t work.”

Credence raises an eyebrows and nods at the lack of personal space between them. Their thighs are pressed together on the sofa, which Percival had been doggedly trying to ignore.

“I maintain that this has nothing to do with you. Come on, try it out. Stand up with me.”

He has a notion of something he can do to help Credence with the spell, but he’s saving that for later. He wants to see him attempt it on his own first.

“Think of a happy memory,” he says. “The best one you have. You already know the arm movement and the incantation from seeing me do it.”

Credence grips his wand tightly, like he always does when he’s trying a new spell and feels uncertain. He needs something to anchor him. Percival boldly sets a hand on his shoulder, taking care not to make any skin to skin contact as he does.

“Go on.”

Credence gives him one last nervous glance and then his expression turns determined. “Expecto Patronum,” he says.

A few tendrils of silver dribble from the tip of Credence’s wand and hover for a moment in the air before them. Percival laughs, overjoyed.

“Brilliant,” he says. “That’s better than most first timers manage. Try again, really focus on the details of that memory you’re holding onto. What _makes_ it a happy memory?”

Selfish though it may be, Percival hopes _he’s_ involved in some capacity. He knows all too well that Credence doesn’t have many happy memories from before their acquaintance. He knows he's tried his hardest to provide some ever since.

Credence moves his wand arm again, more decisively this time. “Expecto Patronum!" he says, and on the second try, Credence’s wand emits a more voluminous pale vapour.

Percival claps his shoulder. “Much better,” he says.

Credence huffs a disbelieving laugh and sags right back into Percival behind him, the full length of his body ending up flush against Percival’s. It’s both bliss and torment and Percival mindfully shifts his hips back a bit so as not to have any mortifying incidents _arise_ as a result.

Growing bolder with every passing second though, he moves his mouth to Credence’s ear and asks, “What are you thinking of?”

Credence shivers and doesn’t answer, leaning back even further into Percival as if he can’t keep himself upright without that support. It’s hard to keep their lower halves separate still and Percival grits his teeth at the feeling of Credence’s plush behind fitting into the cradle of his pelvis so perfectly.

Percival rests his free hand on Credence’s hip to steady him and regretfully pushes him forward, just a little. “Woah there,” he says.

Head spinning, Percival feels drunk with all this contact. Powerful. Exultant. Even if he _could_ , he isn’t sure he _would_ step back fully and put a wide gap of cooling-off space between himself and Credence again at this point.

He shouldn’t be doing this, he thinks. It’s so wrong and it’s everything he’s tried to avoid up to now. He doesn't touch Credence. He just doesn't.

Remembering his earlier idea, remembering what he’s _supposed_ to be doing, Percival takes his hand off of Credence’s hip. With Credence’s shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, it’s easy to skim his fingers down Credence’s bare forearm and they both suck in a sharp breath when uncomplicated pleasure skitters through each of them.

“Percival,” Credence begins in a shaky voice, but he doesn’t follow it up with anything.

“Try again,” Percival says.

He’d picked Credence’s left arm to touch so that Credence’s other hand would be able to keep his wand aloft. He stops his teasing and curls his fingers to take hold of Credence’s wrist, seeking out his pulse. It thuds rabbit-quick under his thumb. Panic? Desire?

“Try what?” The tremble is still present in Credence’s words.

Percival chuckles. “The Patronus, of course,” he says. “Try it now. Just… maybe take a deep breath and centre yourself first.”

Credence does and Percival feels his ribcage expand against him. He recites the incantation without any wobble to his voice and the bright shape of a moderately-sized animal escapes his wand then.

He’s done it. He’s produced a corporeal Patronus.

Percival is just about to congratulate the achievement when he feels Credence tense. As he looks properly at the creature—at its feline shape, at the characteristic _tufts of hair that wisp up from its ears_ —he understands why.

His admiring words, already on their way out, all collide and form a blockage in his throat.

It’s a lynx.

It’s slightly smaller than the one he’s familiar with casting himself, but it’s unmistakably the same animal.

Pain bursts through his forehead when Credence pulls out of his hold and stumbles too far away. He drops his wand in his haste and the damning evidence of his Patronus evaporates.

Percival reaches out for something to grip onto, the ensuing headache already threatening to bring him to his knees, and then he suddenly doesn’t need to when Credence comes back to him again.

“Sorry,” Credence says miserably, hugging himself and trying not to get close enough to touch Percival even as the curse forces him to stand mere inches away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you then, I just forgot. I don’t know why that happened, it wasn’t meant to look like that, I didn’t think anything would come out and then—”

“Credence,” Percival says to cut off the babbling. “It’s okay, I’m not upset. Or angry, or whatever you think.”

Really, there are a few reasons that could explain why Credence’s Patronus just so happens to be the same as his. Chief among them is that he’s only seen a small number of Patronuses and he’s far more used to the form of Percival’s than he is, say, Tina’s marmot or Queenie’s swan. He’s only seen those bring news sparingly, whereas he’s always watching Percival despatch his lynx with messages. Perhaps it’s nothing more than familiarity that has made it assume that shape.

It doesn’t have to mean what Percival wants it to. It _can’t_ mean that, can it? Even if that is the most likely explanation?

It’s a line of thought to explore when Credence isn’t looking like he might be sick with nerves.

“It’s okay,” Percival repeats, hoping to comfort him with words if he can’t do it with touch. What he wouldn’t give to be able to hold him close and stroke his hair. “It’s a good thing,” he continues. “You made a corporeal Patronus on your third try, Credence. That’s incredible.”

“You helped with the—” Credence gestures at his forearm.

“Maybe,” Percival acknowledges, “but it still came from you.”

He stoops to pick up Credence’s wand, ignoring the twinge in his head as he does. He hands it back to Credence with an encouraging smile.

“Why don’t you see if you can do it again without me?”


	3. Chapter 3

Credence manages to conjure his lynx Patronus again twice before dinner. He still looked dismayed both times to see the same animal, but Percival had made every attempt to cheer him up with praise until Credence was smiling bashfully, face flushed at Percival’s open admiration of him.

Where they would usually sit opposite one another at the dinner table, today they have to bring their chairs together as close as they can on one side in order to eat comfortably without any headaches. Although _comfort_ is relative when their elbows brush constantly and they spend the meal mumbling apologies and cleaning up spillages here and there.

After that, the remainder of the evening is quiet as they sit and read in the living room. Credence would normally take to the armchair but now leans against Percival’s side on the sofa, looking through one of his spellbooks, brow furrowed in concentration. Percival meanwhile is frowning too because he’s totally unable to concentrate on his own reading—some paperwork he wanted to have ready for work on Monday. He’s been dutifully shuffling between the pages from front to back even though he’s comprehended maybe only a third of what is written on them so far.

He’s too aware of Credence’s body next to his. Too focused on the bony shoulder against his own, on the heat where their legs touch. He keeps picking up on the delicate, almost floral notes of Credence’s aftershave balm, the one he bought because his own was too strong for Credence’s sensitive skin. As he flips another page, he blinks rapidly and widens his eyes as if it could help clear the haze that seems to cover them. He’s almost blind to the words now, hopelessly distracted by how much he wants to lean in and put his nose to the sharp, smooth line of Credence’s jaw to breathe in more of that scent.

He inhales through his mouth. Exhales slowly. Restrains himself.

If he ever manages to summon the focus and willpower to get through this paperwork, he thinks that he may find himself _sending_ it in for Monday rather than _taking_ it in like he’d expected to if this curse isn’t lifted by then. He can hardly go to work while he and Credence have to be attached at the hip like this. The practicalities of doing so aside, he’d be beyond ineffectual in his present covetous, lust-addled state.

As time passes and the room gets darker and Credence stifles a yawn, another concern prods him for his attention:

What are they going to do about sleeping arrangements?

He’d sent off his owl _and_ his Patronus to check on MACUSA’s progress this evening and all he’s been told is that there have been no developments in either breaking or even just understanding the curse.

Bronwen had sent her frail old barn owl too, wishing them a good night (sarcastic hag) and saying she had not made any significant headway with their predicament either.

Percival is doomed. One thing is for sure: he needs to dig out his pyjamas again. After a long habit of sleeping without anything on, he bought the pyjamas about a week before Credence moved in. He’d done so out of courtesy for his new roommate— _just in case_ , he’d thought—and then he ended up glad he _did_ buy them when he’d been given the shock of his life by Credence sleepwalking into his bedroom in the small hours one night.

It turned out that all those times Credence had woken up somewhere he wasn’t meant to be in the past probably weren’t purely Obscurus-related like they had thought.

Over time though, the sleepwalking began to happen less. As Credence became more familiar with his new, _safe_ environment, his nightmares tapered off, his unease calmed, and Percival found that months went by without any late-night intrusions. So he returned to his old habit. One didn’t buy expensive silk bed sheets to only feel them against one’s bare hands and feet, after all.

Naturally, tonight will have to be a different story.

When Credence’s yawns become more frequent and his head and eyelids begin to droop intermittently, Percival broaches the subject.

He nudges his shoulder against Credence’s and asks, “Where do you want to sleep tonight?”

Credence, who had been halfway to nodding off again, startles. He suddenly looks clear-eyed and alert. “Oh,” he says, and Percival watches the flush creeping up his neck with wonder. “I don’t… I don’t really mind. I was hoping this would be fixed before now.”

_You and me both,_ Percival thinks bitterly. This has to be punishment for something. He just can’t believe the universe has conspired so that he has to sleep in the same bed as the untouchable object of his affection. Well, they won’t both be _sleeping_ in the same bed, in reality. He can plainly see the insomnia that lies ahead.

“Would you be comfortable in my room?” he asks. “I was going to say my bed is bigger, but extra space is probably the last thing we need...”

Percival means to keep his tone light as he says it, but the mere thought of Credence in _his bed_ still makes his heart race with anxiety and the words seem to blurt out, awkward and rushed.

“Your bed is fine,” Credence says, equally fast. He must be embarrassed too.

“Are you ready to—” Percival falters, nerves getting the better of him before he can finish with ‘go to bed’. Honestly, it’s like being a teenager with a crush again, having to watch his words, terrified of giving himself away. “I mean, are you tired? Do you want to sleep now?”

It’s a stupid question, really, considering how Credence has been falling asleep against him for the last ten minutes. Percival grimaces, annoyed by his own idiocy.

“I’m _so_ tired,” Credence admits, giving a small, timid smile. “I was just seeing how long I could put off the inevitable.”

Guilt sluices through Percival then, leaving a sick feeling in its wake. He winces at the reminder that, unlike him, Credence doesn’t _want_ any part of this. He can’t lose sight of the fact that Credence wouldn’t be sitting this close if he didn’t have to and he can’t be at all keen to share Percival’s bed. Just because _he’s_ getting a shameful kind of enjoyment out of their forced proximity, he can’t project his feelings onto Credence.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I know this is an inconvenience, to say the least.”

Credence ducks his head, a light blush still daubed over his cheeks. “It’s all right, you don’t have to be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

Percival smiles at him in thanks, but he can’t seem to shake the feeling that there’s plenty of blame that should settle on his shoulders.

They go upstairs to the bathroom first to brush their teeth. The sight of Credence’s face reflected in the mirror next to his is enough to have Percival’s stomach performing somersaults, churning with how much he wants this easy domesticity to continue and how well he knows that it can’t last. Frustrated, he works the bristles of his toothbrush harshly against his teeth and the mouthful of white foam he spits into the sink afterwards has swirls of red intermixed. When he looks back up, Credence’s reflection is wearing a frown and Percival waves off his concern.

“Pressed too hard,” he says.

Following that, they move on to Credence’s bedroom to collect his sleepwear. Percival is the one sporting a flush now when he realises they’re going to match in their pyjamas tonight. He had gone out and bought the same set for Credence as he did for himself after Credence shyly remarked upon how soft his looked. He’d said it in the dead of night one time while they drank tea across from each other in the kitchen, both weary but wide-awake after one of Credence’s early sleepwalking incidents.

Of course, the pyjamas herald another problem besides more painful domesticity, and the next hardship presents itself when they go into Percival’s bedroom and he retrieves his own sleepwear from the depths of his wardrobe.

“I could step outside while you get changed,” Percival suggests, throat dry and hands damp at the mere _thought_ of Credence undressing. “It’ll only hurt for a moment.”

At his side, Credence can barely meet his eyes. Percival hates this curse beyond words for putting them in this position and he hates himself because, simultaneously, he doesn’t hate it at all.

“You don’t have to,” Credence says. “I don’t want you to be in pain on my account.”

“I suppose we could just… turn around?”

They end up back to back as they get changed. Somehow though, the situation is all the _more_ erotic for the lack of a visual. Percival’s imagination runs wild as he listens to the rustling of fabric and the noise of Credence’s breaths, which seem fast and a bit shaky to his ears.

He knows his own breathing has turned slightly laboured as his mind supplies helpful images of the parts of Credence’s body that he _is_ familiar with from their cohabitation. Like the mouth-watering flash of his collarbones in the nightshirt he used to wear to bed. Like the shape of Credence’s bare torso above a towel wrapped around his slim hips on all those occasions when they’d fatefully crossed paths in the hallway leading to the bathroom. He’s even taken with the knobbly knees below that same towel, the dark hair on his calves. It’s very old-fashioned of him, he thinks wryly, getting heated at the memory of Credence’s pale ankles and the delicate arches of his bare feet against the floorboards.

Every now and then, their movements as they undress cause them to jostle one another. Their elbows clash, their hips bump, and Percival feels increasingly faint with each accidental contact.

When Credence steps out of his trousers, he over-balances and his back meets Percival’s. They stumble a few steps across the room together, almost ending up on the floor.

“Sorry,” Credence mumbles when they’re upright again, “sorry.”

Feet planted firmly beneath him now for added stability, Percival leans into Credence just a little in a gesture of reassurance. “Don’t apologise,” he says. “In fact, I think we both need to just stop saying ‘sorry’ altogether until this is over.”

Credence huffs a laugh at that and Percival grins to himself.

Eventually, when Percival is fastening the last button on his pyjama top, Credence says, “Okay, I’m done now. You can turn around.”

Percival has to bite back a sigh of relief. That’s another obstacle overcome without any major issues, at least.

He finds Credence hunched over with downcast eyes when he does turn around and it gives him the strongest urge to just take Credence’s hand and lead him over to the bed, like he might do with a hesistant lover. He folds his arms and holds onto his biceps for fear of his traitorous hands doing anything untoward.

“I usually sleep on the left,” he says as they cross the room to the bed and stand at the foot of it. “Is that all right with you?”

Credence only nods in lieu of answering with words. They move around to the left side of the bed and Percival draws back his covers. “You get in first then and I’ll follow.”

After some awkward shuffling and a few brief twinges of pain, they lie in the middle of the bed on their backs, side by side. They’re close but not making any contact, clothed or otherwise. Despite that, Percival can still feel that Credence’s body is as taut as a bowstring. With a wave of his hand, he turns off the ceiling light but leaves on the two wall-mounted ones on either side of the bed, dimming the room.

“Relax,” he says to Credence, turning onto his side in order to be able to watch his face. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I haven’t ever slept in the same bed as somebody else.” Credence lifts his arms from beneath the sheets and twists his fingers together on top of them. “It’s strange.”

“Bad strange?”

“Just… different. But I’m worried that I’ll move about too much and hit you, or worse.”

Percival laughs softly. “What’s worse than hitting me?”

Silence falls for a moment. “I don’t know,” Credence eventually says. He shakes his head, mouth an unhappy downward curve. “I’m tired, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Percival knows what _he_ would consider worse. The danger that he’s preoccupied with is less that he’ll hurt Credence and more that his sleeping body might take liberties with him that his alert self never would and roll on top of him or something similarly awful.

He can stay awake, he decides. It will be hard to shut his mind off with Credence so close, so he’ll watch over Credence and make sure he sleeps well and, at the same time, he’ll be able to keep himself in check.

“Go to sleep if you’re tired,” he says. “I promise I won’t mind if you hit me.”

Percival casts the room into shadow with another lazy movement of his hand. When his eyes adjust to the gloom, there’s still enough light coming through the small gap in the curtains to see by.

Credence shifts under the covers, his lovely face marred by his lingering troubled expression. Percival longs to rub that tension from his features with his thumb. It strikes him then that it might not be a terrible idea to do so—the pleasant feeling touch elicits might help Credence to settle and drop off with no more worries.

Without letting himself get mired in doubt, he reaches out and smoothes his thumb over the crease between Credence’s eyebrows. The change is immediate. Joy spreads through Percival at the first touch of their skin and Credence sighs, a little satisfied noise puffing out of his lips, his face slackening under Percival’s hand. Percival swaps his thumb for his index finger at that and he shifts his body an inch closer while he strokes gently, repeatedly down from the middle of Credence’s brow to the bridge of his nose. The back-and-forth motion soothes him as much as it does Credence and Percival feels warm from head to foot when Credence shuts his eyes under that tender ministration

“That’s it,” Percival murmurs after an indeterminate length of time has passed, heart full. “Rest, sweetheart.”

The endearment, so loud in his thoughts, slips out of his mouth before he can contain it and a jolt of panic seizes at his stomach. Credence’s eyes remain closed though, his breaths deep and even.

He’s asleep, thank Merlin.

Gradually, Percival’s arm begins to cramp from holding it over Credence’s face and he stops his stroking, regretfully taking his hand back. With a smile, he just looks at Credence now, peaceful and perfect in the light of stars and the moon illuminating him. Percival’s adoring gaze takes in the sweep of his long eyelashes that rest against the thin skin below his eyes, the slight dusting of pink over his cheekbones, the delicate part of his lips that are still sinfully tempting even with Credence’s face otherwise innocent in repose.

He memorises all of it, carves the image onto his mind so that he can revisit it when he has to sleep alone again. He’s missed this, he realises—the heat of a solid body near his. The intimacy and trust it implies. It’s been so long that he’d forgotten how wonderful it feels to _have_ someone like this. He misses sex too, obviously, it’s been a while on that front as well. He definitely misses the touch of a hand that isn’t his own and the sheer elation that comes with giving someone pleasure and receiving it in return.

But at the same time, in a way, there’s something present here in this bed with Credence that was lacking before in his sexual relationships. Although his previous partners were (mainly) people he liked and respected, he doesn’t think he ever felt as strongly towards any of them as he does towards Credence. His whole life, he’s never lain awake beside the person he loves and just drank in their every facial feature and let himself be comforted by listening to the rhythm of their breathing.

He could live with that, he thinks. He could live with always keeping his back turned, never seeing Credence bare, never getting to kiss him and put hands on him, if he could keep this simple happiness of just having him nearby in his bed.

Somehow, with that wish twining around his sluggish thoughts, in the space between heartbeats and Credence's steady breaths, Percival falls asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Percival wakes still tired, barely refreshed at all with gritty eyes. And yet he feels... perfectly content. The contradiction befuddles him until a number of sensations break like rays of sunlight through his clouded consciousness:

One, there is a soft pressure on his forehead.

Two, he’s holding something heavy in the circle of his arms and the right one on top is tingling pleasantly like the rest of his body while the left one underneath the weight is tingling in a decidedly _un_ pleasant manner where a nerve is obviously being trapped.

Three, something warm is laying over his right thigh and hip.

Four, he has an erection.

Five, it’s Credence—Mercy Lewis, _fuck_ , he’s holding _Credence_ and that’s his forehead touching Percival’s, that’s his leg draped over Percival’s and—

Six, Credence is hard too.

Oh, this is bad. This is so very bad.

Percival’s eyes roll upwards when a testing squirm does not break him away from Credence like he’d hoped but instead causes their lower halves to brush together in the middle of their humid tangle of clothed limbs. With their brows touching still, his pleasure is magnified tenfold and Percival almost whimpers at how good it feels, how _right_.

A sigh escapes Credence then and Percival angles his neck backwards, ending their one point of skin contact to avoid feeling overwhelmed by it anymore _._ The move also provides enough distance that Credence’s face comes into focus, no longer just a blur.

His eyes are closed in slumber still, but his expression is pinched in frustration. His mouth is as red as his cheeks and it’s open as he pants for air, his lower lip shining wetly in the morning sun spilling onto them both through the crack in Percival’s curtains. That lush mouth of his might as well have been _made_ for kisses but Percival doesn’t think it’s ever been touched by another’s. The thought thrills him far more than it should.

Despite his innocence, Credence is the very image of debauchery, even in sleep. Percival has woken up hard and wanting so many times before when he’s dreamed of Credence in his bed just like this, but this is no dream. This is the reality he’s craved all this time.

Credence’s hips blindly press forward into his and Percival clenches his jaw hard enough to hurt to keep from letting out the winded grunt the action provokes. He’s so aroused already that he’s almost throbbing with it, sensitive in a way his own hand hasn’t been able to elicit in an age. His arms tighten around Credence involuntarily when he feels a damp spot form on the front of his pyjama bottoms and that tangible, _tactile_ evidence of his perversion is what suddenly makes this all too obscene to continue. He has to wake Credence before this can go any further, before things can become any more depraved.

“Credence,” he says, quietly, so as not to spook him. “ _Credence._ ”

Credence’s dark eyes blink open for a moment before his eyelids drift lower again. He shifts drowsily in Percival’s hold and the motion brings their hips together for another burst of friction that would have Percival _pleading_ for release under any other circumstances. Credence gasps, trembling against Percival, his half-closed eyes fogged over with sleep and desire.

Then, before Percival can even begin to try and explain away this situation, Credence’s mouth crashes into his.

The move shocks him and Percival’s hands flex helplessly on Credence’s back as he fights to stop his eyes slipping closed. That would feel too much like he was letting this happen, like he was participating in this.

Credence’s lips are clumsy where they move against his, making his inexperience plain. Another testament to that chaste nature is the _greed_ of his kiss. The velvet-soft mouth on Percival’s is hot and demanding, and Credence moves it erratically, changing the angle of the kiss over and over as if he can’t decide which way they fit together best.

Percival shivers as each meeting of their mouths and noses brings a fresh rush of exhilaration due to the curse. He feels hopelessly confused by the barrage of sensation, overwrought. Opening his lips and shutting his eyes at last, he gives up any pretence of not participating in this kiss.

That response prompts Credence to rut against him desperately, making these frantic little whining noises in his throat that have Percival’s pleasure spiralling out of control even more than the pressure against his cock. Everything is happening so fast that he loses all ability, all _inclination_ to put a stop to it.

He’s on the verge of coming when Credence is the one to bring their grinding to a halt. Suddenly, he freezes, the veil over his eyes lifts, and he _sees_ Percival—shaking, saturated in lust, teetering on the edge.

“You’re real,” Credence whispers through kiss-swollen lips. Percival’s fingers creep towards them of their own volition before he realises what’s happening and stops it. “Oh God, this isn’t a dream. I’m so—”

Percival can easily tell when Credence is going to apologise by now and he cuts Credence off before he can say it. He can’t hear Credence apologise for what almost just happened between them, not when he wanted it so much, when he’s about ready to beg for the confirmation that Credence wanted it too.

“It’s all right,” he promises. He thinks of following it up with ‘these things happen’ but that would be absurd because they don’t, really, do they? Surely no one else in the world has ever woken up to this specific torment. Surely no one in the history of mankind has been as cursed as they have, literally and figuratively.

Maybe it’s not as impossible a situation as he had thought though.

 _‘You’re real,’_ Credence had said. _‘This isn’t a dream,’_ he said. The words play on a loop in Percival’s mind, but no matter the inflection his internal voice gives them, the meaning remains the same. Credence thought he was dreaming and so he _kissed_ Percival. There’s no second-guessing that, no hiding from the intent Percival felt in the urgent motions of his mouth and the brazen press of his hips.

Credence is biting his lower lip now and Percival knows, he _knows_ it’s a gesture of anxiety that he should be trying to lessen already, but his muddled brain takes it for something much more carnal in nature and his erection pulses for his attention at the sight.

It’s too much.

Percival abruptly pulls himself out of the bed and there it is: horrible, sobering pain. His head pounds viciously, his arousal diminishes, and he begins to soften. That self-denial is the very worst kind of misery, but it had to be done. He has to be able to _think_.

In the bed, Credence is twisted up in the sheets, clutching at his head and giving quiet, pitiful cries of pain. The noises rend Percival’s heart and, when he’s more man than animal again, he climbs back onto the bed and lays his palm on Credence’s forehead. At once, the aching stops, replaced by calm and comfort. They both sigh in relief as one.

“This fucking curse,” Percival says, voice hoarse.

Credence nods against his palm, swallowing hard before letting out a long, shaky breath. Giving in to a desire he’s shunned for months, Percival caresses Credence’s face from temple to jaw, sweeping his thumb across the prominent ridge of his cheekbone. A cascade of sparks seem to follow his path and they both breathe heavily under the indulgent feeling it causes.

“Fucking curse,” Percival repeats as he takes his hand back. The words are even fainter than before, all previous traces of annoyance lost from them.

“Percival,” Credence says. His voice cracks. His eyelashes dip, chin following, and Percival recognises the shame on him instantly.

“Hey.” Percival carefully lifts his head back up again with one knuckle. “Why are you hiding?”

Credence’s eyes squeeze shut. “I can hardly look at you after what I just did. How can _you_ stand to look at _me_ after I… after I took advantage of you like that?”

The puzzle pieces are all falling into place now, countless obvious clues that Percival hasn’t let himself decipher, moments he hasn’t dared ascribe meaning to in case he had it wrong and he was only setting himself up for a fall.

Ever since this curse struck them, those moments have only become more conspicuous. He thinks of Credence, dismayed in the kitchen yesterday when he thought Percival was reacting negatively to their first touch after the curse befell them. He thinks of Credence leaning into him before he conjured a breath-taking Patronus that was the complement of Percival’s own. He thinks of the quickness, the _eagerness_ of his agreement to spend the night in Percival’s bed.

“You think _you_ took advantage?” he asks, incredulous. “Credence, I’m beginning to think I might have been a monumental fool over something here. You have to tell me now, and tell me truthfully: do you—” he pauses, takes a deep, fortifying breath, and then takes a running leap of faith right off the precipice they’re poised over— “Do you _want_ me?”

Credence’s lips tremble. He blinks rapidly and tears gather along his lower eyelids. “I can’t,” he gasps out, “I can’t, please, don’t make me say it.”

“Why?” Percival presses, in a way he never has with Credence before but needs to now. His heart seems to have turned to glass, already cracking and splintering in his chest to let the light of hope in. He's just so close to getting everything he wants, so close to having the chance to give Credence what he wants in return. “Credence, why can’t you say it?”

The tears spill over, gravity dragging them down Credence’s temples to disappear into blackness when they reach his hairline. “Because you won’t say it back and I can’t tell you—you can’t _know_ how I feel unless—unless you— ”

Credence sucks in great lungfuls of air as panic grips him tight. Consumed by regret over pushing him too far, Percival hastily splays a hand over his cheek to lessen the strain and Credence’s eyes close at the touch, his lips parting.

“Okay,” Percival says, voice pitched low to soothe him. He curls his hand and wipes away the wet sheen of Credence’s tears on either side with the backs of his fingers. “You’re okay, just relax, breathe normally again.”

Credence tries, his chest expanding and then falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm while Percival moves to lay down beside him again, listening to the air entering and leaving his nose. He puts his palm to Credence’s cheek once more and turns his head so that Credence is facing him, although he stubbornly keeps his eyes shut instead of looking at Percival.

“My love,” Percival says softly, more breath than voice, and _that_ makes Credence’s eyes flick open, wide and startled.

A smile curls Percival’s mouth. It’s such a relief to hear those words spoken aloud, to release them instead of having them eternally fluttering around in the confines of his skull. He repeats himself, starting his address over again for the unfettered joy of it. “My love,” he says, “don’t you know by now that I adore you? Do you really believe that I don’t thank the star I was born under for every day that you’re with me? That I don’t worship the very ground you walk on?”

Instead of the happiness Percival had hoped to see on his face at the admission, Credence just looks stricken. His wary eyes search Percival’s, obviously hunting for any sign of deceit. “I _am_ still dreaming,” he decides. “This whole weekend must be a dream. You aren’t yourself.”

The assertion is maddening in how little Percival can comprehend it. “Why do you think that? Why don’t you believe what I’m telling you?”

“Because this is what it was like before.” Credence blinks and two further tears escape his eyes. “I should have _known_ then but I didn’t, all because of what _I_ wanted and I can’t do that to you again.”

Before? Before what? And what does Credence think he’s done to him? Percival just can’t make the connections. Nothing he’s saying is making any sense. “I don’t understand,” he says, shaking his head against the pillow beneath it.

“You keep _touching_ me.” Credence sits up in the bed as he speaks, arms wrapping around his knees and hugging them to his chest. Percival follows, quickly getting himself sat upright too so their faces remain level. “You never touch me,” Credence goes on, face crumpled in distress. “Never, but he _always_ did and—”

Credence stops talking at once, hands flying up to cover his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he says between his fingers. “I shouldn’t have mentioned him.”

A faint, high-pitched ringing makes itself known in Percival’s ears.

He. _Him._

Grindelwald.

Percival opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Credence has never mentioned Grindelwald to him like this—he’s never given details of what he did or said to Credence, and Percival has never asked beyond those first conversations where they delineated _before_ and _after_ the impersonation. Credence has never directly compared them.

All at once, Percival finds his voice again. It comes out hard. “He touched you? How?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It does,” Percival says, still in that awful, severe tone that he just can’t seem to soften. It’s not directed at Credence, but he knows that won’t be obvious to him.

He can’t be calm, can’t be soft, not when he’s burning with hatred as he thinks of how much of his life Grindelwald had managed to taint. He turned friends into strangers who look at Percival with hollow eyes these days, he turned Percival’s home and sanctuary into a prison that he had to move away from to live here now instead.

Of course he put his filthy hands on Credence. Of course he did what Percival has only longed to do. It would have meant nothing to a man like him, Percival thinks bitterly, nothing at all, whereas Credence means _everything_ to him.

He should have opened this door before now, instead of refusing to even consider the possibility. Perhaps he could have acclimatised to the idea over time then, instead of it hitting him like a stunning spell to the gut and making him cold when he should be kind.

“H-he…” Credence falters in his answer, tears rolling down his cheeks. “He would touch my face and my shoulders. He… he used to heal my hands and he held me afterwards. I thought he was you, I wanted it to be _you_ holding me.”

On hearing that, Percival closes his eyes and lets himself drown in a flood of self-loathing.

All that he’d imagined—bodies writhing in ecstasy, open, gasping mouths, hands sliding over bared skin—and _this_ was all Grindelwald had done. It’s almost as bad, somehow, knowing he’d offered Credence such innocent, _needed_ comfort with his hands, even if it was manipulation all along. Meanwhile, Percival had failed to give Credence the same thing out of fear of ever touching him. A selfless fear of exploiting him and a selfish fear of being rejected by him.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Credence, as gently as he knows how, threading sincerity through every word that follows. “I’m sorry for getting angry. It’s not because of _you_ , not in the slightest. I’m angry with him for using you, but mainly I’m just angry with myself.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Credence says, with a fierce expression and a shake of his head that makes Percival give a rueful smile, at once endeared by his sweetness and saddened by how little he deserves it.

“I have, but I’m going to put it right. It’s definitely me with you here, Credence, I swear. It’s no dream that I’ve been touching you more lately. This curse has just given me an excuse to do what I’ve wanted to for all this time.”

 _All this time_. So much wasted time—he has to begin making up for it. He thinks he knows how to start. “Do you still want… would you allow me to hold you now?”

Credence doesn’t answer him verbally, just launches himself into Percival’s arms. It’s somewhat awkward, the pair of them sat hugging in the middle of the bed like this, and so Percival guides them back down onto the mattress to lay comfortably together. Once they’re settled, Credence tucks his face into Percival’s collarbone and Percival lifts a hand to hold the back of his head protectively. His fingers wind into Credence’s hair, stroking, and he finds the strands are every bit as silky as he’s always imagined they would be.

“I should have known the difference,” Credence tells his shoulder, voice thick with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry for not being able to tell. It’s so obvious now, but at the time, I just thought we were getting closer. I _wanted_ to be closer to you.”

“Hush,” Percival says. He drops his head to press a kiss into Credence’s hair. “It’s all right. There was no way you could have known. You don’t have to be sorry for that, or anything else, not with me. Nothing you could ever say or do would make me love you any less.”

Credence shudders against him at that, pulling his head back to be able to look him in the eyes. His mouth opens and his jaw works a few times while he obviously gathers his courage to say something difficult. Percival waits, heart floundering in anticipation.

“I love you too,” Credence eventually says, the words brittle as they leave his mouth on a soft exhale.

Despite how fragile the confession is, it’s the opposite of _weak_ , and it moves Percival like few things in his life have. It reminds him of the shimmering, dust-filled, magic-laden atmosphere in the wandmaker’s shop that he nearly set on fire as a child when he got his first wand. It makes him recall the anxious roiling of stomach during his sorting at Ilvermory, the glowing pride in his chest on the day he completed his Auror training. It brings to mind every other occasion when his world seemed to be a thing of unlimited possibility.

He smiles, fortunate beyond belief. Credence _loves_ him. They love each other and they’ve told each other at long last. What else matters, what else could stand in their way after that?

“Credence,” he says, “Credence, I’m going to kiss you now.”

Percival’s smile widens when he hears Credence’s breath catch. Credence gives a fervent nod and he moves his head closer to Percival’s on the pillow they’re sharing. His eyes close even before Percival leans in himself.

When their lips meet, their noses come together too in a gentle bump, and they both laugh at their clumsiness. Still chuckling, Percival takes Credence’s face in his hands and tilts him a little before kissing him again.

Percival’s whole body might as well be lit up from the inside. His fingertips fizz and an immense swell of near-rapturous delight flows through him with every beat of his heart.

As he feels Credence’s hands come up to hold his jaw, he finds himself almost certain that he would be feeling this exact same euphoria right now even without this _fucking curse_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one part left after this! ETA: two parts. Two. I've made a liar of myself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a liar of myself last time. _This_ is the second to last chapter because I ended up having to separate the bits I thought would fit together to neatly wrap things up. And I have no concept of how many words scenes will end up being... So there’s one final bit after this and then it really is done  <3 Thanks if you’ve stuck with it!

“You can look, you know.”

Percival tries to make his tone light and airy as he says it, but his pulse is thundering at just the idea of Credence’s eyes on him. He’s thought it before and he thinks it now: he’s clearly turning into a teenager again here. There’s no other explanation. It would be disturbing if he wasn’t so reluctantly _charmed_ by how young and giddy he feels around Credence. It’s a relief to know he hasn’t been too broken by the circumstances of his life, not been too eroded by time and tide, and he can still experience the same flutter of nerves he did when he was fifteen and had his first fumbling kiss.

He imagines Credence has been feeling similarly overcome, given that Percival now holds the irrevocable privilege of being _his_ first kiss.

(As Credence had told him when he asked. Confessed it right into his mouth, almost unintelligible, every word punctuated by a gasp or another ardent press of his lips, “No, never. I've _never_ —”)

Percival likes to think that they’re matching in the breathless anxiety of their affection for each other, despite the fact that he’s done this all before. It doesn’t feel like he has. Everything seems to be new and wondrous, as if he and Credence were the first people to discover these sensations, as if they were the ones inventing every single word and act of love all by themselves.

Credence stands close behind him presently—they’re back to back again and Percival is undressing for the bath he’s running. Credence had insisted he go first, a blush on his cheeks as he turned away.

Trying not to overbalance while he shifts from foot to foot to remove his trousers, Percival feels the fabric of Credence’s pyjama top slide against the already bare skin of his back, a tease that further threatens his stability. The pounding of his blood in his ears gets louder.

Bubbles the size of quod balls float around them in the bathroom and the smell of jasmine fills the air while a thick layer of white, buoyant foam coats the rising water in the tub. Percival had cast a few spells on a whim when he first turned the hot tap, wanting to hear Credence laugh at the rainbow bubbles and see him relax under the calming scent of the bath oil.

Steam begins to rise off the water and Percival leans forward to open the cold tap. His face is flushed equally from the heat in the room and from his proximity to Credence, who still hasn’t said anything in response to his offer.

It seems strange—laughable, almost—to be chastely hiding his body from Credence like this after the length of time they’ve just spent kissing in his bed. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth just _thinking_ about the way their lips moved together, languid, unhurried, parting and coming together again over and over. His head spins and his palms grow clammy as he recalls the tentative touch of Credence’s tongue against his, how he grew bolder with it over time.

He thinks he might just know Credence’s mouth as intimately as he does his own now, after all that, and it must be the same for Credence. So why should the rest of Percival’s body be a mystery to him?

He doesn’t want to make Credence uncomfortable though. Their kisses didn’t progress into anything more and Percival had been the one to suggest breakfast and then a bath to get ready for the day when things _did_ start to get a bit more heated, wary of moving too fast all at once, especially in light of Credence’s inexperience.

He feels now that he has to add something to his earlier statement. “If you want to,” he says. “I meant that you can look if you want to. I’m… I don’t mind.”

“I want to look,” Credence finally says behind him, soft and breathy. “I want to see you, please.”

It’s the ‘please’ that really gets to him. Percival kicks his pyjama bottoms away and turns around right away, nerves evaporating in favour of his standard determination to just give Credence anything he wants. He’s more than happy to give himself. What there is of him, at any rate. He knows his body is lean with a good amount of muscle that he hopes is attractive, but any appeal is no doubt offset by his myriad scars and the greying hair that never used to concern him until he went and fell in love with a man sixteen crucial years younger than him.

Credence meanwhile doesn’t turn immediately. Percival waits, watches the shell of his right ear and the line of his jaw below it as he begins to angle his head back as if trying to glance at Percival out of the corner of his eye. Gradually, the rest of Credence’s body follows and he turns to face him.

The curse means he has to stay close—he can’t stand back to look his fill properly. Percival keeps still while Credence tilts his head down to be able to appraise all of him in the tiny space between them. It’s a struggle not to shift under the scrutiny, but he doesn’t want to startle an already timid Credence. He’s slightly reassured when Credence brings his head back up to meet his eyes again and he finds Credence’s lips are parted, his pupils dilated. That’s a good sign, surely?

“I don’t really know what to say,” Credence tells him. He sounds faint. Lost.

Percival suppresses a grimace. He wasn’t arrogant enough to expect a ringing endorsement, but he’d always been quite confident in his looks and his relative attractiveness before he met Credence and became transfixed by his otherworldly grace that made him seem mundane by comparison. It’s a hefty blow to the ego to have Credence unable to find words to express his disappointment.

“It’s okay,” he says, dragging the assurance out of a tightening throat. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m much older than you, I’m probably not what you were expecting. I understand completely.”

Credence’s mouth pulls down at the corners, his brow furrowing. “No,” he says, “you don’t understand at all. I don’t know what to say because everything in my head is probably wrong. Is it… is it okay to call a man beautiful, like you would a lady?”

Percival’s heart restarts itself at that. “It’s perfectly okay,” he says in a rush. Now he’s the one sounding lost.

“Then—then you are. Beautiful, I mean. Just like in my dreams, only better because you’re real.”

Credence’s face is earnest and his words steal Percival’s breath. “I’m starting to think _you’re_ the dream here,” he murmurs, lifting his hands to cradle Credence’s face in them. “Are you real? Or am I making you say these things to me?”

To his surprise, Credence’s answer is to sway further into his space and catch his mouth in a kiss. The curse gives it an extra jolt of passion that is familiar to the both of them by now and Percival shudders under the onslaught of it, like a sudden shower of warm rain in the height of summer.

He’s just starting to madly wonder if he actually _wants_ this curse broken when Credence draws back again. There’s a pink tinge to his cheeks. “Did that feel real?” he asks.

Percival skims careful fingers over Credence’s hairline and down the side of his face, thumb tracing the length of his nose to settle on his lips below. He smiles and answers, “Very.”

A large bubble pops against his cheek then and Credence laughs at his put-out reaction. It’s a reminder of the world around the two of them and the noise of running water filters through Percival’s awareness that had until now been preoccupied only with _Credence, Credence, Credence._ He quickly turns back to the tub to find it almost full to the brim and he shuts off the tap with a wave of his hand before he can flood the whole bathroom. Credence laughs again, as light and effervescent as those same bubbles that are drifting through the air. It’s a sound Percival doesn’t think he could ever get enough of.

After he’s drained some of the excess water so that none will spill over the edge of the bath, Percival gets into the tub awkwardly with Credence following as close as he can behind without getting in himself. As Percival sinks into the water, Credence lowers himself at the same time to sit on the floor beside the tub. He sits facing in the same direction as Percival, but he turns his head so that they can look at one another, propping his chin on the curved lip of the porcelain bath. He’s near enough that no headache comes on.

“All right?” Percival asks him.

Credence nods, nuzzling his soft cheek against the back of Percival’s hand where it rests on the edge of the tub before he reaches out to hold his hand instead. “Perfect.”

The touch evokes a contentment that flows like liquid gold in Percival’s veins and they both bask in the shine of it. Afterward, Percival will never be sure how he managed to bathe one-handed with such a distraction, especially when Credence just starts _playing_ with his hand almost: one finger following the outline, tracing from the base of his thumb around every digit as if he was drawing around it on paper. He bends and straightens each of Percival’s fingers in turn, sweeps his thumb over every knuckle and tendon, holds Percival’s wrist to raise his hand up to the light a little to examine the lines on his palm. Mostly, he just tangles his own fingers between and around Percival’s repeatedly, finding all the different ways they can slot together.

“I need that hand back,” Percival tells him gently, when he runs into difficulty trying to wash his hair.

Credence duly surrenders it, but the second it’s free he’s grabbing it again, as if it’s his by right now.

It is, really, Percival supposes. His hands are for Credence, along with the rest of him. His smile, his breath, his heart—all Credence’s now.

When Percival is finished washing, he stands and summons a towel that wraps around his hips neatly. Credence stands too, summoning another towel that he passes to Percival with a proud grin.

“Masterfully done,” Percival commends him as he squeezes most of the water out of his hair with that towel and then levitates it back over to the rail.

He dries off enough to not be dripping all over the floor when he steps out of the tub. Credence crowds him the instant both his feet are on the ground, the length of his body pressing close, one hand hot on Percival’s waist above the towel, the other catching a droplet of water meandering down from his collarbone. He tilts his chin in a way Percival has already started to recognise as a request for Percival to kiss him, and Percival obliges, sealing their mouths together.

They kiss like that for an age and by the time they part, overly warm and breathing heavily, Percival is dry enough to summon a shirt and trousers to put on, which he does with some reluctance.

“Your turn,” he says, gesturing at the bath. He would drain the water and run a fresh bath for Credence if he thought he could get away with it, but he knows how much Credence hates waste—too used to washing in cold, fourth-hand water after the women in his family were done with it. Not wanting to cause an argument, Percival just settles on casting a subtle wandless charm to make sure the water is the optimal temperature for him again.

Percival is about to be a gentleman and turn his back for Credence when a hand touches his delicately.

“You don’t have to,” Credence says, eyes cast down. “You can look.”

Percival dips his head to make eye contact, making sure Credence follows when he raises his head again. “You don’t have to say that just because I did.”

“I know, but I want you to, I…” Credence takes in a shaky breath and offers a small, brave smile. “I love it when you look at me.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Percival says, chest aching. “If it were up to me, I’d never look at anything else.”

With that said, Credence’s fingers drop to the buttons of his pyjama top. He pauses and Percival wonders if he’s changed his mind already.

“Maybe,” Credence says before licking his lips nervously. “Maybe you’d like to do this?”

There’s no ‘maybe’ about it. “It would be my absolute pleasure.”

He bares Credence with reverent hands, moving them slowly, wanting to memorise every part of Credence that he reveals, every flicker of emotion that crosses Credence’s face.

“You’re the beautiful one,” he says, when he spots the doubt starting to creep up on Credence, when he sees it bend his spine and pull his head back down. “I can hardly believe my luck.”

The words seem an inadequate way to express his devotion fully. Just seeing that return to the posture of a former life makes Percival want to give Credence confidence to replace all doubt and he decides then that he’s not just going to undress him.

“Would you let me wash you?” he asks. It comes out husky as he slides the pyjama top off of Credence’s shoulders and lets it drop to the floor at their feet. With that barrier gone, he runs his eyes down over the planes of Credence’s chest and stomach, gratified by the knowledge that he’s filled out to a healthy size since coming to live with Percival, no longer the waifish bag of bones he used to be. Barebone by name, perhaps, but not by nature anymore.

Credence blinks at him. “You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do _anything_ for you, Credence. And, right now, I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more.”

Well, he _can_. But they’ll get to that.

The movement of Credence’s hand to his mouth looks unconscious. He bites at the knuckle of one index finger, breaths audible around it while he keeps blinking rapidly, eyes darting between Percival’s face and the floor with uncertainty. He takes his finger out of his mouth after a moment and says simply, “Okay.”

To stop himself getting distracted from the task at hand, Percival keeps his gaze up when Credence steps out of his pyjama bottoms without fanfare and then gets into the bath. The foam Percival added earlier hasn’t diminished thanks to its magical origin and Credence’s body is instantly obscured from his view after he settles down in the tub.

His mouth has a slight downward tilt to it as he lies there, eyebrows angled the same, and Percival resolves to do everything in his power to make him lose every single worry that afflicts him. He starts by rolling up his shirtsleeves and adding a generous amount of coconut-scented shampoo to one palm before lathering it up between his hands.

“Relax,” he tells Credence. “Put your head back to wet your hair and then just let me do all the work.”

Credence obeys without question. When he resurfaces, Percival reaches over the edge of the tub to massage the shampoo into his damp hair, finding an infinite calm in the movements of his hands, in the way Credence tips his head into them with a pleased sigh at the first touch of fingers to scalp. Percival eyes the elegant, tempting line of his throat as he works the lather in.

“I… I like that,” Credence murmurs.

“Good. I’m glad.” Percival carries on running his hands through Credence’s hair from the roots to the ends. He probably does it more times than is strictly necessary—he’s just enjoying himself. “And tip your head back again.”

After he’s sure he’s washed all the shampoo out, Percival picks up the bar of soap. “Sit up for me now.”

Credence does so hastily, making the water slosh and churn around him. Percival lathers his hands again with a smile at his eagerness. He leans over the tub and, ignoring the twinging in his own back in that uncomfortable position, puts his soapy palms to Credence's spine. Any pain dissolves soon enough when the effect of the curse takes hold.

Still smiling to himself, he draws gentle circles over Credence’s shoulders and sides and down the length of his back. He maps the position of every mole with greedy eyes before he covers them over with soap.

Credence’s shoulder blades shift under his hands, a writhing kind of movement that suggests he’s enjoying the attention. The pleasure in the soft exhalation that comes out of his mouth confirms it.

“Percival.”

He doesn’t add any further words, just leaves the name hanging in the air. Percival doesn’t feel the need to say anything back. He takes up the sponge and dips it beneath the water, saturating it before he squeezes it over Credence’s back to remove the soap.

He moves from the head end of the bath to the opposite one after that. He methodically lifts and washes each of Credence’s feet in turn, running his thumbs over the heels and arches.

There’s something in Credence’s Bible about the washing of feet, he thinks. For the life of him though, he can’t remember what it is. Perhaps he’ll ask later. Now isn’t the time to bring up such things, considering what he’s planning to do next.

The tension in the room is already high, silent but for the sound of their breathing and the rippling of the water and the wet slide of skin on skin. Noises that go along with Percival carrying out his worship of Credence. The clinging atmosphere only gets more heady when Percival comes around the side of the bath to run the sponge over Credence’s throat and each sculpted clavicle below.

Uncaring that his shirtsleeve isn’t rolled high enough to not end up submerged, Percival dips his hand and the sponge in it beneath the surface of the water to travel down Credence’s sternum, keeping eye contact with him the whole time. He smiles at him in reassurance, but Credence doesn’t return it. His eyes are wide and Percival catches the white of his teeth just sinking into his red lower lip.

Percival has to lean forward to kiss him then. As he moves his mouth over Credence’s, he lets the sponge float away and keeps his hand moving, dipping it lower, lower—

Credence breaks their kiss with a gasp, nose sliding across Percival’s cheek when he turns his head to one side to pant harshly. Percival presses his lips to Credence's damp temple now it's in front of him.

As Percival had expected he would, he’s found Credence hard. He’s getting that way himself, trousers growing tight already with the curse helping to fan the spark of his arousal into a wildfire. He spreads his thighs and shifts his hips against the edge of the bath without shame, teeth grinding as he wonders what in Merlin’s name possessed him to get dressed earlier.

“Do you want me to touch you here?” he asks, near breathless with desire. “Will you let me? I want to, Credence. I’ll make you feel good, I promise I will.”

Credence immediately gives a jerky, frantic little nod. “Please. Percival, _please._ ”

Percival doesn’t waste any time on hearing that. He takes hold of Credence and drags his hand along the length of him, watches with awe as Credence’s eyes flutter shut and a fetching flush seeps over his cheeks.

“You’re magnificent,” Percival tells him.

Percival works him gently to start with, but he soon goes for a firmer touch at the crumpling of Credence’s face, the quickening of Credence’s breaths. The sound of the water Percival is displacing with his arm with each stroke seems to sync up to the rhythm of Credence’s panting and the wing-beat thrumming of Percival’s heart.

He’s fully hard in his trousers now, but that’s a concern for later. He _needs_ Credence to come. Needs to see his features go slack with the enormity of his pleasure, to hear whatever gorgeous sound he makes when he hits that peak, to feel the twitch and pulse of him in his hand.

“Almost there,” he murmurs to Credence. He speeds up the movement of his hand. “Nearly there now. Come on, Credence, you’re doing so well.”

It’s a litany of nonsense praise and encouragement spilling from his lips, but it seems to help. Credence whines, hips lifting off the base of the tub with a jarring squeak of skin on porcelain as he pushes urgently into Percival’s willing hand. It makes Percival press his own pelvis harder against the curved wall of the bath that separates them, seeking friction in a bid to soothe the ache building up there.

“That’s it, sweetheart, go on.” He lovingly wipes away the sweat beading on Credence’s brow with the back of his free hand as he near-enough _croons_ the words at him. “You're stunning like this, Credence, so beautiful. Let me make you feel good, let me help you.”

“Percival,” Credence chokes out. “Percival.”

Percival shuts his eyes for a moment, the desperation in Credence’s plea bringing _him_ to the brink, never mind what he’s trying to do for Credence. He tightens his hand around Credence as he tries to restrain himself, almost without meaning to, and that’s what does it.

Credence goes taut when he comes, a low, satisfied moan dropping from his open mouth. His head lolls back and there’s a dull thud when it impacts the bathtub behind him. “God,” he gasps. “ _Percival_.”

Percival shatters just hearing Credence say his name like that. He grinds himself against the bath once, twice, and finds completion that way, shaking and almost unbearably overwhelmed. When the spasms stop, his body loses all tone and he collapses into the side of the tub, forehead coming to rest on the lip.

His next awareness is of Credence’s hand running through his hair. Gentle fingers comb over the strands for a minute or so before they cup the back of his head, just holding onto him.

It’s the safest Percival has felt in a long, long time. Easily the most cherished.

Percival lifts his head up to look at him again and Credence’s hand follows, as if he was disinclined to break that point of contact. There’s a lovely softness to Credence’s face now—all glassy, heavy-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks and slack mouth. Any traces of the strain and struggle of chasing his pleasure are gone from his countenance.

“Are you all right?” Credence asks. His fingers begin to stroke through Percival’s hair again.

“Never better,” Percival tells him honestly, although he knows it should be _him_ asking that. It should be _him_ providing comfort to Credence, not the other way around. He’s the one with all the supposed experience—he shouldn’t be a shivering wreck like this. “What about you?”

Credence smiles, cheeks dimpling in the way that Percival adores. “I feel amazing. Like I could fly, maybe.”

Recalling his first time on a broom and the soaring exhilaration he felt when he took off, Percival thinks the analogy is quite accurate. His heart is calming in his ribs now, back to a canter after its former galloping pace, and something about the innocence of Credence’s words makes it thud that bit slower and softer still. Credence does that for him—brings him a peace like none he’s known before.

“I love you,” he says, because it’s true, because he’s kept it a secret from Credence for so long and he doesn’t _have_ to anymore. Because it’s the loudest thought in his head in that moment.

Credence’s eyes drop demurely before they meet Percival’s again. His lips twitch as if they want to spread wider and, when he gives into it, his full smile is breath-taking in how radiant it is. He leans forward then to bring his forehead close enough to meet Percival’s. “And I love you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Percival is flat on his back on the sofa when the knock at the door comes. Credence is on top of him, a perfect fit as he lays between Percival’s open thighs, kissing him sweetly with hands gripping his shoulders. They’re both fully dressed again after their baths, clean and dry, and there’s a different heat altogether between them now—a simmering, decadent thing, compared to the fire that consumed them just an hour ago in the bathroom. It’s a heat Percival would have been quite happy to spend his whole morning luxuriating in, until this disturbance.

“Credence,” he mumbles when the insatiable creature above him shows no sign of moving, no sign of even having _heard_ the knock.

It’s unclear if he heard it and ignored it or if he really was just deaf to the noise. Could be six of one and half a dozen of the other, really, Percival thinks. Credence has become suddenly, wonderfully greedy: he hasn’t let Percival up for the last twenty minutes or so after he all but pounced on him in the first place. He gave an irritated whine earlier when he thought Percival was trying to break their kiss and move away (actually, he was just trying to get his foot to wake up after it had gone numb), setting his teeth against Percival’s lower lip as if to scold him, hands tightening on his hipbones.

Percival can scarcely believe the change in him, but he loves that Credence is stubbornly holding onto what he wants, and that what Credence wants is _him_. If Credence is feeling possessive, he’s all for it. He’s in the same boat.

However. A knock at the door could be significant.

“Credence,” he repeats, the name wobbling in the middle when Credence’s lips press hard against his pulse before going on to suck at it. “It might be about the curse.”

 _That_ stops him. Credence’s head lifts, hazy eyes looking down at Percival. His mouth is slightly swollen and the sight of it has Percival perilously close to just kissing him again and forgetting all about the door.

“Oh,” Credence says, “right.”

Percival chuckles at his eloquence. Another few thuds of fist against wood reach their ears.

“We’d better get that.”

They stand up, awkward and oddly bashful now that their private little world of two has been invaded. Percival tucks Credence’s shirt back into his trousers for him where his hands had tugged it up to get to his skin and Credence reaches up to fix Percival’s hair as best he can. They walk through the house together close enough that their arms brush. That closeness has become as familiar as breathing in the last day, commonplace and comforting. Now though, there’s a difference—Credence’s hand slips into his.

“Who’s there?” Percival calls when they get into the hallway.

“It’s Bronwen.”

Percival grimaces. She’s unwelcome on the worst of days, to say nothing of her interruption on this near-perfect Sunday morning.

Credence’s hand leaves his while Percival removes physical locks and magical barriers with his free one. He misses the weight and warmth of it at once and wonders if it’s just the return of Credence’s natural shyness or if it’s an acknowledgement of his awareness that there are few in the world who would accept a relationship like theirs. He suspects Bronwen is kind enough (at least in her feelings towards Credence if not him) and eccentric enough not to care.

When Percival opens the door, he finds Bronwen smiling. She looks about as bedraggled as ever with her fly-away hair that seems unfamiliar with even the _idea_ of a comb and her patchwork robes in an assortment of different colours and patterns. He suspects the awful woman makes her clothes herself and he frowns heavily at how conspicuous her appearance is. Is she breaching the International Statute of Secrecy in some way, just by existing? Maybe there’s something he can finally get her on.

“Good morning,” Credence says, ever polite.

Instead of looking to her pupil and answering him, Bronwen stares at Percival for some unknown reason and her smile shrinks and then vanishes. “It didn’t work,” she says. “You still have that look about you.”

It’s her usual role: turn up and then proceed to insult him in some esoteric way. He’s sure he’s being insulted, anyway. “What are you talking about?” he asks her. “We’re still cursed, if that’s what you mean.”

“I can’t believe it failed,” she says, melancholic. “Twenty-four hours and it _failed_.”

Bronwen shakes her head and pushes past both of them. The ill-mannered hag sweeps into their house as if she owns it and Credence and Percival follow her down the hallway to the sitting room, exchanging a confused—and vexed, in Percival’s case—look.

Bronwen throws herself onto the sofa and Percival tries very hard not to remember just how fervently he was previously being kissed on it not five minutes ago. He feels a prickle of heat over the back of his neck and hopes it doesn’t reach his face. He’s far too old now to blush, especially in front of disagreeable company.

“I’m here to break the curse, gentlemen,” Bronwen says with a sigh. “I’ll put you back to how you were.”

“How?” Percival asks. He’s conscious of how tense Credence has gone at his side. “MACUSA still haven’t found anything to help, Seraphina sent an update already.”

Bronwen huffs. “Yes, well, I didn’t think Americans could be relied upon to look further than the ends of their noses to find out what this is. Too arrogant to look _outside_ their country for its origin, I bet.”

“It’s a foreign spell?” Credence asks, clearly interested in the prospect.

It all clicks into place for Percival then. There’s only one possible culprit. One person it could have been, based on what she’s said since she arrived. “You did this,” he says, slow but certain. “You did this to us, didn’t you?”

Credence’s mouth drops open in surprise and he looks between Percival and Bronwen, head swivelling. He waits, but Bronwen doesn’t contradict the accusation or try to defend herself. “What? _Why?”_

For the first time in their acquaintance, Percival sees an expression of shame cross Bronwen’s face. “Credence,” she says. “ _Cariad_ , don’t be angry with me. I just wanted to give the two of you… a little push.”

“A push towards what?” Credence presses.

Percival knows. He’s appalled to find his mind must work in the same devious way as Bronwen’s. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful to the witch or set her on fire.

“Towards this,” he says, taking Credence’s hand again and cupping his cheek with the other. When Credence’s startled face turns toward him, Percival decides Bronwen might as well not be present. He ignores her completely in favour of giving all his attention to Credence, stroking the soft skin beneath his eye, hoping to soothe his consternation.

Perhaps he will set her on fire, for this. He knows how much Credence trusts her.

“Cast the counter-curse,” he orders Bronwen without looking at her, stare still fixed on Credence while he waits for him to stop looking so hunted. “Before I hex you into next week.”

“Already done it.”

That’s when Percival realises: he’s touching Credence, but there’s no additional tingling contentment overlaying it, no pleasant feeling beyond the one he knew he would get anyway at finally being able to do this. That’s why he didn’t notice, perhaps. It still feels absurdly good, just getting to _touch_ Credence after so long spent denying himself that very pleasure.

The revelation makes him wrong-footed and he clears his throat in an attempt to regain both his composure and the upper hand. “Brilliant,” he says. “That means I can arrest you for the improper use of magic now.”

“Wait,” Credence says with a frown, “you aren’t really going to do that.”

He isn’t, but he doesn’t want Bronwen to know that. “You do realise how much pain and inconvenience she’s caused us?”

“But it did work, didn’t it?” Bronwen asks, ignoring the valid point Percival just made. Apparently not at all cowed by the threat of being arrested. “It’s brought you together? In that case, I’ve given you a gift. Can’t arrest me for that, you should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you? For all those headaches?” Hell, he’s developing one _now_. Another one that’s all her fault.

“Well,” Bronwen says, far too brightly. “I didn’t think the two of you would insist on trying to move apart so much to start with. You’ll notice how I lessened the effect of the pain before I left you yesterday; I realise I overshot that. And I _did_ add something nice to balance any pain, didn’t I?”

“What a saint you are,” Percival growls. “I won’t arrest you, fine, but you’re fired. Get out of our house.”

“No!” Credence says. “Percival, you _can’t_. I’m not upset about this and I need Bronwen to teach me!”

He takes a few steps back from Percival, moving nearer to Bronwen. Percival braces himself for pain almost reflexively and is relieved when none is forthcoming—the curse really _is_ broken.

“You’re not upset because you’re the best this world has to offer, Credence, and you deserve as much in a tutor. One who doesn’t curse their own damn students and then lie about it. One who isn’t unspeakably rude to their employer as well, if I can swing it.”

Percival just can’t understand her, at all. Her motivations for cursing them in order to get them together are unfathomable. He has to ask. “Why would you do this? Don’t you hate me? I’m surprised you think I’m good enough for Credence.”

“Hate you?” Bronwen shakes her head, her unruly mane of hair bouncing about as she does. “Myrddin, no, I don’t hate you. You’re still not good enough for Credence, but I know you love him and he loves you. I was getting tired of the way you kept looking at each other, and you know how I feel about the bloody miserable face you have on all the while, Percival Graves. You have someone here that adores the air you breathe, why don’t you ever _smile_ _?”_

“I…” Percival is quite sure the flapping of his mouth must make him resemble a fish. It’s so undignified that he can barely stand it. He feels horribly exposed, having her refer to his and Credence’s feelings like this.

“Tell me,” Bronwen continues, soft and persuasive. It’s the tone Seraphina uses often, a politician’s voice meant to change hearts and minds. “Would you have ever told Credence how you feel if I hadn’t forced your hand?”

No, Percival thinks. No, he might have took that secret to his family tomb like the fool he is. “You still had no right to meddle.”

“I’m glad you did,” Credence tells Bronwen quietly. “This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Percival feels his anger leave him then, hearing that. It drains away—like water from a bathtub, a place where he loved Credence with eyes and hands and words. It’s a memory he might never have made without this curse.

Bronwen smiles at Credence. Gentle. Maternal, even. “Oh, cariad,” she sighs. “That’s all I wanted for you. I’ve hated having to watch you suffer. I just couldn’t think of a better way of getting you both to admit how you feel.”

As Bronwen talks, Percival only half-hears her. He’s struggling to find suitably meaningful words to give back to Credence, inundated as he is by his own unsurpassable happiness, by a flurry of thoughts centered around how fortunate he is.

In the end, he might as well just say the same thing because it's simple and direct. Unambiguous. “It’s the happiest I’ve been too.”

Here, Bronwen turns her smile on Percival. Amazingly, it doesn’t diminish at all and her eyes glimmer with a warmth he’s unused to from her. It’s unnerving.

“Percival,” she says, “this is the best your face has ever looked to me.”

 

* * *

 

“Everything feels different.”

Credence holds himself above Percival as he says it, looking down at him. Percival reaches up to brush the sweat-slick fringe out of his eyes and nods his agreement, pressing another short, smiling kiss to his lips. Credence melts back into him at once.

With Bronwen gone—safe in the knowledge that she is _not_ fired, with instructions to come back when she usually would tomorrow for Credence’s lesson—they’ve picked up where they left off earlier.

This time though, they’re in Percival’s bed as they kiss. _Their_ bed, Percival amends. It’s not like he’s ever letting Credence go back to his old room now.

“Has it lost some of the shine?” Percival asks teasingly when their lips part again.

And he _can_ tease now, without any hint of insecurity. He’s got all the evidence he needs right here that the lack of any extra feeling brought on by the curse hasn’t stopped Credence wanting to kiss and touch him in the slightest.

Nor has it stopped him. Nothing could. Percival raises his hips and rolls them against Credence’s, mouth curved in a wicked grin.

“No, it feels— _oh,_ do that again, please—it feels natural now. Like it’s supposed t-to. _Percival._ ”

“Yes, my love?” Percival says, his attempt at an innocent affect ruined by how short of breath he’s becoming.

Credence tilts his chin up, lips parting, and Percival knows what he’s requesting before he voices it. “Just… kiss me again?”

“Gladly,” he murmurs, bending his head and pressing his open mouth against Credence’s. He revels in the gasp he elicits when he manoeuvres a hand into the minute space between them and trails his fingertips down Credence's abdomen.

He can foresee the whole day being lost to this: their lips and tongues sliding together, their curious hands exploring each other’s bodies. Surely there could be no better way to spend the day.

No one at MACUSA knows the curse has been lifted yet. Perhaps he’ll keep it to himself, he thinks, for now. See how long it takes for them to do as Bronwen said and look further afield for a solution. Test his people. Give himself and Credence another day together.

_Can’t come in to work today—too cursed._

He laughs as he imagines sending that note in with his owl and Credence laughs back between kisses, even without knowing what’s in his head.

He’s perfect.

The thought heats Percival's body as much as Credence's rocking against him does. He's just awed by the fact that he's holding unrivaled grace in his arms here, an incomparable, immeasurable treasure, and it's _his_. All his.

 _Can’t come in to work today,_ Percival thinks again.

_Too blessed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everybody for your kind words and lovely praise and encouragment - it's meant a lot! <3
> 
> If you're remotely interested, I'm doing an Atonement AU over [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11090298). That's the end of my shameless self-promotion now. Thank you again!

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](https://graves-expectations.tumblr.com)!


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